Page 129 of S is for SEX

“No, your fucking Chuck’s, Em. I want you to take off your shoes. Jesus H. Christ, yes, your god damned shorts. And if you’ve got on any fucking panties, I’m going to drag you in by your heels and paddle that ass of yours until you can’t walk for a week,” he said.

I had found out he preferred I not wear panties, but it certainly wasn’t natural - at least initially - for me to do so. I had worn panties with every outfit I had ever chosen to wear, and the thought of not wearing them had never really crossed my mind - pre-Jackson, that is. Although I had acquired quite the collection of panties over the years, I now found not wearing them a guilty little newfound pleasure. As I unbuttoned my shorts and pushed them down my hips, I twisted my mouth to the side and acted as if I didn’t want to take them any further.

“Off,” he demanded.

I kicked my ragged shoes to the side and continued to play the hesitation game as I watched him become more anxious. Eventually I pushed my shorts down my thighs and dropped them to my ankles. As they came to rest at my feet, I stepped through the leg with my left foot and kicked my right foot upward. My shorts flew in a perfect arc toward where Jackson stood. Without expression or changing his stance, he reached up and plucked them from the air as if it were a daily occurrence.

Now standing in the back yard with my cleanly shaved pussy out in the open for all to see, I waited eagerly to see what his next instruction was going to be. I suppose I should have felt embarrassed, or maybe even slightly guilty, but I didn’t. My only concern was what Jackson expected of me. As I stood twenty feet in front of him naked from the waist down, my pussy began to tingle as I thought of the possibility of him fucking me in the grass.

As he stood and gazed at me, I focused on the crotch of his jeans. The shape of his zippered area changed from flat to full, and then slowly began to rise.

Score!

“Get your little ass in the kitchen,” he demanded as he pointed toward the door leading into the garage.

“Yes, Sir,” I responded as I slowly walked toward the garage in my best sexy runway model impersonation.

As I stepped over the threshold of the door, I feigned stubbing my toe, and bent over as if to grab my damaged digit. With my ass in the air and my pussy pointed directly at him, I winced in non-existent pain and waited for him to scream.

“In the kitchen, you little shit,” he bellowed.

I stood, hobbled through the garage as if damaged, and ran into the kitchen as soon as I was out of his eyesight. Once in the kitchen I waited eagerly for what was sure to be some insanely satisfying sex for us both. As I leaned against the kitchen counter waiting for him, I did my very best to arch my back and thrust my non-existent ass in the air.

Although I initially expected all of our sex would include some version of me being bound, gagged, or mildly tortured, I was proven wrong. I learned the BDSM acronym stood for Bondage, Discipline, Dominance, Submission, Sadism, and Masochism. With Jackson, his satisfaction wasn’t so much about any one of the aspects of the acronym, it was about control.

He enjoyed variety, and in fact, we had sex on many occasions that was pretty conventional. Regardless of the flavor or intensity of the sex we both enjoyed it very much; but he was always in control, even if it was something as simple as telling me to get my ass in the kitchen. The control satisfied him, and me relinquishing control, and my living in the unknowing world of what was next satisfied me.

He told me in the beginning he was different that anyone else I could ever encounter in life, and he was sure right.

“Stand on your fucking tip-toes,” he barked as he entered the room.

The sound of his voice startled me.

“Yes, Sir,” I gasped as I stood on my tip-toes and peered over my shoulder.

“You didn’t stub your fucking toe, you little shit. You think sticking your little pussy in the air is enough to fluster me?’ he asked as he walked toward the sink.

As he washed his hands, I responded.

“No, Sir,” I said over my shoulder.

It wasn’t necessarily the truth, but it was without a doubt what he wanted to hear, and therefore what I needed to say.

“Face the other direction,” he demanded, “and don’t turn around again.”

I turned away, wondering if he was really upset over the toe thing or if it was just a show. Most of the time, I never knew for sure. I guessed it was probably best that way, and although it often caused me slight grief, I realized it was exactly what he wanted.

I rested my elbows on the kitchen counter and anxiously waited for him to call the next shot. After a few seconds, he leaned forward, pushing his massive chest against my back. His forearm slid against my right elbow, and his mouth moved alongside my cheek, resting at my right ear. His warm breath against my ear sent chills down my spine.

“Put these in your mouth,” he whispered as he held three ice cubes in front of my face.

What the fuck?

As I reached for the ice cubes, he placed a small glass bowl of ice on the countertop in front of me. The ice wasn’t the square or rectangular cubes, but the half-moon style the ice machines on refrigerators typically make.

I slid the three cubes into my mouth and began juggling them with my tongue. About the time I realized my mouth was much fuller than I was really comfortable with, and as I hoped the ice would quickly melt away, his freezing cold finger pressed into the folds of my pussy and caused me to jump.

With my mind focused on the mouthful of ice, I was beyond startled by his half-frozen fingertip being shoved into my twat. I immediately jumped, banging my hips on the edge of the countertop. I then gasped from the pain, choked on my mouth full of water, and immediately coughed. Water shot out of my mouth and all over the counter. As I wailed in pain from my soon to be bruised hips, a piece of the melted ice escaped my mouth and slid along the length of the kitchen counter.

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